


Ivory Black

by neonthrones



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Nightmares, Post-DMC5, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonthrones/pseuds/neonthrones
Summary: Fingers curl gently around his chin and tilt his head up, a familiar touch that once comforted and now promises pain, but the physical damage is nothing. Looking at his face hurts so much more than any wound.Five years of bare-faced lies are written there, and he can't believe how foolish he was to trust it in the first place.Vergil smiles at him. It makes him feel ill.





	Ivory Black

**Author's Note:**

> **The tags and warnings are applicable from the get-go; please pay attention to them!**
> 
> Massive thanks to [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/) for being my soundboard and beta for this absolute disaster, and to the Spardacest Discord server for helping spawn it in the first place. <33

_Tack. Tack. Ta-Tack._

The sound of fluid too thick to be water, falling at a lazy, irregular pace. It echoes, the curved stone walls and vaulted ceiling bouncing the sound back to him. 

_Where am I?_

The gentle crackle and spit of several open flames as they dance over the fuel that feeds them. _Rags and oil._ Torches on the walls. The light they cast flickers beyond his barely opened eyelids, reflecting dully on what he thinks must be something wet. 

His own breathing. Laboured, wavering, watery. It's not the sound his lungs are supposed to make. 

The sharp scent of copper hitting the roof of his mouth, a smell that should rouse him, make his senses supernaturally keen as half of him prepares itself for a hunt, but not this time. The air is thick with the smell of it, of blood, but the side of him that often chomps at the bit to be let loose is cowering instead, because it's _his_ blood, and there is so, so much of it. 

He forces his eyelids open a little further, willing his heavy eyes to focus. The firelight reflecting at him from the floor — he's looking down, head hanging limply, chin against his chest — is hitting something red.

_Tack. Tack._

Ripples pulse lazily from where the thick drips land, coming from somewhere beneath him. 

_From me._

He's numbly aware of the wounds that are being held open, letting the blood flow freely, lazily downwards. Deep cuts pinned open by sharp, organic thorns extending from the vine-like restraints that hold him. He can feel the flesh trying to knit together, and it's itchy and uncomfortable and fruitless, because the man responsible won't let it happen. 

Footsteps on the stone, then splashing through the blood on the floor. He lets out a shuddering sigh.

_Here we go again._

Fingers curl gently around his chin and tilt his head up, a familiar touch that once comforted and now promises pain, but the physical damage is nothing. Looking at his face hurts so much more than any wound. 

Five years of bare-faced lies are written there, and he can't believe how foolish he was to trust it in the first place. 

Vergil smiles at him. It makes him feel ill. 

"Good morning, Dante."

* * *

_ 3 months earlier _

“Mornin’, Verge,” Dante says from behind, his voice rough from sleep as Vergil stirs in the shafts of morning sun that cascade across the bed sheets. Calloused fingers trail his waist and the sensation of stubble scratches against the crook of his neck as Dante places one, two, three kisses there, his breath tickling Vergil’s skin.

Vergil offers a small hum in response, turning his head to meet his brother in a languid, sleepy kiss. “Good morning,” he answers when they part, a smile on his lips. Dante wraps an arm around his waist and pulls their bodies closer together, hooking his leg over one of Vergil’s own in what is, in a practical sense, a terribly ineffective trap. Odd, then, that it seems to work so well. Vergil settles further into the bedding and pushes into the solid, muscular form caging him in with a contented sigh. He never thought he would be comfortable with letting someone hold him like this again, but Dante’s embrace has turned out to be an exception. 

“Wow. I kinda expected you to need a little more convincing that that.” Dante sounds a little crestfallen by how easily he yielded to the unspoken suggestion of a long morning in bed.

“I could kick up a fuss if it would make you feel better,” Vergil says. 

“Be my guest.”

“But Dante, there’s _so_ much paperwork to get through today,” he complains in a half-hearted, mocking tone, pulling the bedsheets around himself more tightly. “But Dante, I have meetings to attend. But _Dante,_ I have to continue developing a seal for the chest containing the Horn of Orc—”

“Or,” Dante interrupts, the word long and drawn out as he nuzzles into Vergil’s cheek, playing along. “You could spend the morning in bed with me.”

“Sleeping, or fucking?” Vergil asks, tilting his head and cracking open one eye, eyebrow raised. This is a genuine question. 

“Sleepy fucking?” Dante suggests with a hopeful grin. 

Vergil makes a point of frowning as though he’s deep in thought, then drops his head back onto the pillow. “I suppose you make a good argument,” he says with an inconvenienced sigh, then chuckles softly. “Happy now?”

“It’ll do,” Dante replies, peppering kisses onto his shoulder. His hand roams lower, squeezes Vergil’s ass, and the mattress dips as he shifts away for a moment, returning with slick fingers that slip between the cleft of his cheeks and over his entrance. They kiss long and slumberous as Dante works him open without haste, propped up on one elbow to better access Vergil’s mouth. 

"Love you," Dante mumbles in his ear when thick fingers are replaced by a thicker cock, settling deep into his core until their bodies are slotted together perfectly. Vergil never feels more complete than he does in these moments, knows Dante feels the same; their souls sing with it, two synchronised heartbeats melding into one. 

"And I you, Dante." Vergil twists to capture him in a kiss again and rolls his hips, eating up the groan Dante offers in response. Beautifully rough skin encircles Vergil’s cock as Dante takes it in hand, stroking in tandem with every satisfyingly deep, unhurried thrust into him. He doesn't rush, and Vergil doesn't want him to — the burn is exquisite, and he wishes he could feel it with every waking moment. 

Dante makes slow, consummate love to him in the way that only Dante can, tender and unrelenting until his cock moves just right and his hand touches just so, gently guiding Vergil over the crest of his orgasm. He hugs Vergil to his chest and follows suit shortly after, coming inside of him with a possessive, not-quite-human growl that he probably can't help, one that sends a shiver of pleasure up Vergil’s spine and makes his demon purr. 

They remain locked together for a time, kissing over Vergil’s shoulder. A perfect morning, one of many they've already had and will continue to have for as long as they draw breath. The thought of that makes Vergil smile against Dante's lips. 

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Dante asks. 

"You," he says. Dante finally pulls out, drawing a hiss of discomfort from Vergil as he's left empty and incomplete once more. There's a gentle touch on his upper arm and he follows the wordless instruction to turn around. 

"You say some real sappy shit sometimes," Dante says once Vergil’s settled on his other side, his eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"And sometimes you smell like the regurgitated meal of a particularly ill Behemoth, but you don't hear me complaining about it."

Dante pulls an absolutely scandalised expression and holds a finger up to Vergil’s face. "Okay, first of all, I wasn't complaining, so that was uncalled for." He holds up a second finger. "And second, that was _one time._"

"I can still smell it in the office sometimes," Vergil continues wryly, earning himself a thump on the arm. Oh, he's never letting Dante live this one down. 

"You can _not!_" he argues. 

Vergil chuckles and silences him with a kiss before he can continue his complaints, the kind that shows Dante just how much he's adored, deep and eager, running his fingers through that tangled mane of hair as he holds him close. Dante responds with a forgiving hum, resting his hand on Vergil’s neck to pull him closer still. 

"We should get up," Vergil breathes into the space between them. They do in fact have errands to run today, Vergil has appointments to take, and Nero is calling in to drop off their suits. "Nero will be here shortly.”

"Nah, he's not coming today." Dante stretches his arms above his head with a groan and glances at him from the corner of his eye. Mischief is a common enough sight in his brother's eyes that Vergil has no difficulty in spotting the telltale twinkle, and immediately grows suspicious. 

"And why would that be, brother dear?" Vergil asks, propping himself up on one elbow. 

“The same reason all of your appointments got cancelled, I’d wager,” he replies with a lopsided grin. Vergil shuts his eyes and counts to ten.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“I might’ve.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Dante places his hand over his heart, looking hurt. “I do something nice for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Those were important business meetings, Dante,” Vergil growls. Dante, infuriatingly, responds with a roll of his eyes and pushes him back down onto the mattress, rolls on top of him with an easy motion and crosses his arms on Vergil’s chest, resting his chin upon them. 

“Yeah, well, today’s special. Business can wait.” He tilts his head. “You know what day it is?”

“Thursday.” Vergil loops his arms around Dante's shoulders despite himself. 

Dante lets out a huff of air through his nose. “Date.”

“Fifteenth.”

“_Of?_” He draws out the word encouragingly. Vergil is getting very, very tired of this. 

“_June,_ Dante. I fail to see—”

“Happy birthday,” Dante grins, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Vergil is quite certain that his brother has been taken by madness, and wonders what could have possibly happened to the idiot’s brain overnight. He places his palm on Dante’s forehead — no temperature, at least.

“Did you hit your head during the night, or has the tumor of your ego finally started pressing against something it shouldn’t?” he questions. “We’re _twins._”

“Not _that_ birthday,” Dante scoffs, as if his meaning is obvious and that sentence makes sense in any way. Vergil grimaces irritably. Only his fool of a brother could spew nonsense and expect his message to be clear as day. He adds, then, “Fifteenth of June, Verge. It’s the day you came back, five years ago.”

“Oh.”

It’s a pathetic response that pales in comparison to the surge of warmth in his chest. Vergil had never been one to indulge in dreams of peace and happiness in his youth — when one is hunted day after day, unable to forge bonds with those around you for fear of causing their untimely demise after seeing it happen over and over and over, you cannot allow yourself such fanciful thoughts. Never did he think that he could exist in (admittedly somewhat discordant) peace with his brother; not when he thought him dead at eight years of age, not when he found him ten years later, not when he fell and Dante didn’t, when Mundus held him in his palm and reshaped him into something hollow. 

Waking in Dante’s arms every morning almost thirty years later, protected and loved, is still utterly bewildering. Scenes of domestic bliss that should be impossible for him to experience due to his very nature are commonplace, the clash of swords now a pastime to maintain peak performance and no longer a war of twin souls, where the cuts are only physical and his heart remains intact once each match has drawn to a close and they return here to Dante’s home. Even the concept of a _home_ is still foreign, a word that sits wrong on his tongue. That he can be here, five years after splitting himself in two in a last ditch attempt to _survive_ and to accomplish the one goal that his broken mind had fixated on — _defeat Dante_ — is something Vergil will never take for granted. 

Dante wishing to celebrate the occasion is certainly moving, yet…this particular date means little to Vergil. It's not the day where he had finally understood what he had been too blind to see all those years ago — that was still several months away. 

Dante smiles softly at him despite his silence, because he knows; of course he does. This anniversary is special to _Dante,_ then, an exercise in self-indulgence and love-giving that he unquestionably deserves to have but is afraid to directly request, and so Vergil will grant him this and any other day he wishes. He spent long enough neglecting his little brother, not giving Dante the chance to love and be loved by him in equal measure, so he won't deny him now.

The overwhelming urge to drag Dante into a hot-blooded kiss rules out all other thoughts and he follows it through with a determined crash of lips and teeth and unspoken declarations of affection, swallowing his brother’s surprised moans as he pushes Dante into the mattress in a spur of the moment decision to demonstrate his love.

“My beautiful brother,” Vergil murmurs in reverence, sitting back on Dante’s thighs and marvelling at the body splayed beneath him. He pushes his hands from Dante’s hips to his chest in one long, languorous stroke, groping the solid muscle beneath his palms. Dante moans in a wanton display, gripping Vergil’s thighs and arching into the touch, cock twitching in renewed interest. “How lucky I am to have you.”

It doesn’t take long to bring Dante’s cock to attention — never does, often to Vergil’s complete exasperation — and then he’s lowering himself onto it with a satisfied groan, stretched and full once more. “We’re getting up after this,” he warns, moves his hips in an easy roll. 

They don’t, but at least Vergil can claim to have tried. And when they do eventually untangle themselves from the sweat-and-cum-stained sheets and make their way to the shower, well, he doesn’t think he can be blamed for dropping to his knees and taking Dante’s cock into his mouth, not when his brother looks so delicious with rivulets of water cascading over a musculature no human man could dream of having, and it’s only polite for Dante to then return the favour. 

Once they’ve finally made their way to the ground floor, dry and dressed, Dante peels off and disappears through the kitchen door, calling “Tea?” over his shoulder. 

“A vanilla chai would be lovely,” Vergil raises his voice to be heard over the already boiling kettle, and makes himself comfortable with the journals he had lifted from his office on the way down. He sets his own to the side for now and flips to the bookmarked page of the weathered old tome instead.

“One vanilla chai,” Dante announces, setting a tea tray on the coffee table with a dramatic flourish. He slumps onto the couch beside Vergil without spilling a drop of his own beverage and throws a comfortable arm around his shoulders, his other hand occupied with the large mug that, going by smell, is filled to the brim with his usual primordial soup of espresso shots and nothing but, a habit that would have surely put him in the grave long ago had he been entirely human. _‘World’s Worst Uncle’_ is embossed on the ceramic. It’s Dante’s favourite mug. “Tea’s only been brewing for about a minute, so best leave it for a bit.”

“Thank you, Dante,” Vergil says, settling against his brother’s side and returning his attention to the research tome in his hand. It had belonged to their mother, once upon a time. Reading her words alongside his father’s demonic notes and sigils is always bittersweet. Gentle fingers run through his hair, loose and soft from the shower, brushing it back from his face. Dante presses a light kiss to the side of his temple, then rests his head against Vergil’s as he scans the pages himself, giving a discontented grumble.

“I thought we agreed on no work today.” The complaint is petulant, and Vergil has no inclination to respond to it until Dante attempts to pry the book from his grasp; he bares his teeth in a low and possessive snarl, and his brother withdraws with an apologetic hum. 

“This isn't work. It’s…” he trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Dante leans in a little closer and inspects the contents more thoroughly, a soft, impressed whistle escaping him as he recognises the intricate diagrams. For all that Dante plays up the idiot persona he's just as intelligent and well-versed in the arcane as Vergil, and has no difficulty translating the infernal text in his father’s handwriting. 

“For the kid’s wedding gift, huh?" 

He gives a curt, embarrassed nod.

"Damn, Verge, that's… Wow." 

"Miss Goldstein has made the parts for me already," he says, then pauses. Uncertainty is unbecoming of him, but he'll ask anyway. "I'll admit, I'm not familiar with wedding traditions, nor…Nero, for that matter. You think it's acceptable?" He reaches for the sketchbook on the arm of the chair and flips it open to the most recently dog-eared page, angles it so that Dante can see. 

"Holy—" Dante's hand hovers over the notebook, waiting for permission. He nods and passes it to him, watching Dante's expression for the minute shifts that give his thoughts away to see that his surprise is genuine. He traces his fingers over the semi-translucent paper, flips between the different layers of the technical diagrams. "Yeah, Vergil, this is incredible. What's this?" He taps at a smaller drawing in the corner of the pages, far less complex in its design and required enchantments. 

"For Nero's betrothed," Vergil replies. He takes the book from Dante and places it to the side. "A far simpler task than the other, of course, but still no easy feat."

Dante scratches at his stubble thoughtfully. “I can do that one if you want. Made something similar for Patty when she was a kid. Not as good as this one, but I didn’t have much in the way of materials back then.”

"Or brains," Vergil can't help but smirk.

"Hey!" Dante shifts away, affronted.

"Returning to the matter at hand, that would be helpful. We can work on them together later, if you feel so inclined. I require your aid for Nero’s, anyway.” He leans forward to pour his tea and nestles back into the crook of Dante’s arm cradling his own mug. A gentle wave of warmth emanates from his brother at the offer and he finds himself pulled closer still. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Dante says, and they fall into a comfortable silence as they study the sigils and incantations together, a picture of peace in the otherwise chaotic existence that they share. Yet Vergil feels that there is something he needs to discuss; a particularly tumultuous emotion has been plaguing him this last while, setting him on edge about this whole wedding affair, and perhaps Dante can offer some advice. 

“I’m trying, you know,” he says after a while, quieter than intended. 

Dante shifts against him. “Context? Haven’t gone to telepathy class yet.” 

Vergil sighs and closes the book in his lap, folding his hands over the cover for want of something better to do with them. “Being a father was never my intention. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even think it was possible; hybrid species can rarely procreate. By the time he was born I was in the underworld, and I did not know that he existed — and then that he was _mine_ — until five years ago to this day. Our first encounter certainly did little to endear me to him.” He frowns, attempting to gather his thoughts. Dante waits patiently for him to continue, although Vergil can feel his restlessness. “Not much can make up for that, nor the years where he was alone. Like me. Like us. And yet I feel compelled to try.”

“You’ve been doing good,” Dante says. “He appreciates it.”

“Does he?” Vergil curses the hesitancy in his voice; he dislikes being uncertain. “I don’t know if it’s guilt or some innate desire for family on my part, but I fail to see what he gets out of it.”

Dante gives him an odd look. “You just said it yourself; the kid wants family, Vergil. He welcomed us both back, he regularly comes by, and he doesn’t actively try to kill you. Hell, he invited you to his _wedding._ I think that’s a pretty clear sign he wants you around, he’s just too much like you and me to say it out loud.” 

Vergil hums, unconvinced. 

Dante scoffs and shakes his head. "You're a real dumbass sometimes, you know that?" 

He extracts himself from their comfortable sprawl and gets to his feet, grunting as he stretches, arms up by his head and arching his back. Vergil follows the curve beneath his brother’s shirt with approval, marvelling at the way even such mundane movements speak to the power his brother holds, like a lion rousing from slumber. Dante catches his eye, and winks. 

“I’m up for another round if you are…”

“You’re insatiable,” Vergil huffs, following suit and uncoiling from the old couch. 

Dante quietly grumbles something about Vergil being the one eyeing _him_ up, and Vergil promptly ignores him, tucking the books beneath his arm. “Perhaps later. I’m going to make a start on these.”

“Sweet. I’ll grab another drink and follow you up. Want anything?” 

"Perhaps a coffee, this time,” he says over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. By the time Dante joins him in his study with two steaming mugs in hand, filling the space with the rich scent of coffee, Vergil has already made a start on carefully laying out the necessary components for both rituals. The gift for Kyrie is set up on his desk; Nero’s is far too large to fit on any surface but the floor, slim pieces of demonically infused metal thrumming gently with power atop the dark stained wood. He had been drawing the ritual circle for weeks now, making sure that everything was exact to the millimetre — sitting in the middle of it all now, spidering white lines of chalk emanating from the singular point where the pieces of the project lie, is daunting, but he has never backed down from a challenge. 

The project itself: a handcrafted Devil Arm. He opens his and his parents' notes, carefully sets them to the side, and begins assembling the components of the blade. Vergil has studied Nero’s combat style exhaustively through sparring sessions and the occasional hunting job, borrowed the schematics of his son’s ‘Red Queen’ from Nicoletta and meticulously catalogued every facet of the blade — the notes on its weight, where its balance lies, how the mechanisms work — and with this knowledge has drafted a weapon that will be comfortable, familiar, and yet so very different from the human-made sword he knows. 

The only notes to be found on the subject of forging Devil Arms come from his mother’s journals. She had recorded every step that Sparda had taken to create the twin blades he had bestowed upon his sons, every success and failure that the ineffable demon had had in the process, and hidden the information behind false pages of kitchen witchcraft and defensive wards that only those of her blood could see beyond. Vergil has never come across another instance of a Devil Arm being forged in the way that the Yamato and Rebellion were, so his mother’s protection of the knowledge was well warranted. 

Until now only Sparda has accomplished this feat so it’s only right that his offspring are the second to do so, and for the same purpose: to gift the weapon to a son, both as a means of protection and in recognition of the power he wields. With his thorough studies of his parent’s notes, creating this weapon for Nero — and not dying in the process — is something Vergil is certain he can achieve. 

Dante’s current enchantment task is far easier than the one they’ll perform together once the blade is assembled, but it is by no means _easy_ — it’s a ritual that people would pay handsomely for him to complete, because to humans, artefacts like these just can’t be _made._ They’re remnants of demon incursions or crafted by those with witch blood, and even then, only by the most powerful of matriarchs and with sometimes deadly physical and mental strain. To Dante and himself, however, the required energy is childsplay. 

He cannot help but pause in his own work to watch Dante, as methodical in this as he is in battle; chalk lines drawn with as much precision as the cuts of his blade, his mind focused only on the task before him, the rest of the world reduced to background noise. His hand hovers over the two items set within two overlapping circles, each with sprawling symbols and infernal equations worked into and around their circumferences, and he begins muttering the incantations as clearly as he can with careful inflection that spills out in a mesmerising weave of an ancient human tongue and the guttural speech of demonkind. 

Vergil turns his attention back to his own task but keeps his ears trained on Dante’s endless litany. It’s a thing of beauty, Dante’s voice, even more so when it loses the wit and charm and is stripped back to its very base. A bright red flash two hours later eventually indicates the completion of the ritual and Vergil looks up once more — Dante flashes him a brilliant grin and holds up the finished result, both pieces still glowing faintly with the residual magic. 

“One down, one to go,” Dante says, placing the gift into the padded velvet box that Vergil had left on the desk. He carefully picks his way across the floor to the empty space that Vergil has left for himself and one other, careful not to disturb the sprawling mass of interwoven circles, sigils and perfectly straight intersecting lines, and sits cross-legged by his side.

Vergil has almost finished assembling the myriad of interconnecting pieces, perfectly forged from compatible demon parts under his watchful gaze and infused with his own magic. 

“This looks even better than I thought it would. You say Nico helped make most of the parts?”

“Indeed, although buying her silence in the matter almost cost more than paying for the components,” Vergil mutters.

Dante snorts at that. “Yeah, sounds about right. Think she figured it out?”

“Of that, I have no doubt. She was practically vibrating with excitement,” he says, carefully pouring a strip of ever-molten metal into a series of carved grooves that, once full, harden with a white flash and a short burst of searing heat. 

Dante reaches out and trails his finger over the intricate design and the runic symbols integrated into it, the surface now perfectly cool to the touch. The dark pearlescent blue of the enchanted inlay shimmers in the sunlight, standing out starkly against the ebony metal it’s set into. 

“It’s not every day she gets handed the schematics of a hand-crafted devil arm.” Vergil turns the heavy blade over again and repeats the action of pouring the metal into the mirrored inlay, met with another bright flash upon completion, and wordlessly points to a cast-iron box beside Dante that he has, of course, set his now cold coffee on top of. Dante passes the box to him and rests back on his arms as Vergil carefully opens the container, suppressing a shiver as a wave of untamed power escapes from within. In the corner of his eye, Dante tugs his sleeves a little further down his forearms. He leans forward to peer into the box.

“I didn’t think you’d managed to find one,” he says in awe. The small white crystal sits unassuming in a cradle of dragonhide, looking like nothing more than a piece of clear quartz, but both of them know how deceptive appearances can be. Vergil has seen these crystals before while Dante has only heard of them, but the energy it exudes is more than enough to tell Dante what it is. 

“I could find none in this world,” Vergil says, lifting the gemstone between his thumb and forefinger. It catches a ray of light and he sees an almost imperceptible swirl of movement within. “Not surprising, but a bit of a nuisance, when the only other ways to obtain one are to barter with demon generals or harvest it oneself.” 

“From the molten core of hell, where demon souls sink to burn for all eternity and no living thing ever returns. That must’ve ruined your Sunday,” Dante says, knowing that Vergil would rather cut off his own arm than do the former. 

Vergil smirks. “I lost a whole three hours of reading time. A tragedy, really.” He had had to take several components of the blade there anyway, to submerge them in the curious pits of black magma and roiling souls, so it wasn’t much of an inconvenience. He taps the soul-filled crystal along the blade at specific points, watches as sigils within the ritual circles flare and fade with each one. “As it turns out, demonic purgatory doesn’t have much of a grasp on your soul when it’s the most human part of you.” The sigils flash all at once when the crystal touches to the very base of the blade. He turns it over and completes the ritual on the other side, causing another bright flare from the chalk lines on the floor. 

Dante hums thoughtfully, watching the proceedings with open fascination. “Must visit sometime. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

“Temperate, yes,” he agrees, then holds the crystal in the centre of his palm and begins speaking the devilish incantation to bind it to the blade. Dante sits forward in his peripheral, seemingly enraptured, drawn to the infusion of power like a moth to a flame. 

No flash when all is said and done this time, but the chaotic storm of power from the countless condensed souls in his hand is noticeably more stable and no longer causing goosebumps across his skin. “This next step will require both of us. The words are in that scroll, should you need them.”

“Yeah, I'll need 'em.” Dante scoops up the scroll and scoots across the floor to sit opposite from him. “Funny thing: I’ve never made a Devil Arm before. You got this memorised?”

“Are you truly asking me that?” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Dante grins and unfurls the scroll on the floor beside him, weighing down the corners with paperweights while Vergil places the crystal within a small symbol beside the blade and his hands against the outer circumference of the main circle. Dante follows suit, and they begin the recitation. 

The sun is beginning its descent behind the city skyline by the time they've finished, casting a warm glow into the room and turning the sky a brilliant orange. The chalk beneath Vergil’s palm flashes a brilliant blue, and Dante's red — the lights race outwards along the lines around them, filling into every nook of the intricate design that has taken Vergil weeks to prepare, bisecting each other at points as they rush back and forth to the outer edges, lighting the room around them in an ethereal glow before spiralling closer to the centre in opposite directions. They collide with the small crystal simultaneously and it shatters, glittering dust suspended in the air as everything around them goes impossibly still for but a moment before an unholy chorus of the damned assaults their ears, the howls and shrieks of demon souls making one last attempt to survive before they're pulled into the sword, and the room falls silent save for the gentle hum of magic. An uncomfortable static builds in the air, pricking at Vergil’s skin.

The flares of red and blue light continue on their path after the brief pause, finally connecting to where the sword itself rests in the centre of the innermost circle, and the ritual begins to draw power from them as it infuses the sword with their essence — much more of it and far faster than Vergil had anticipated. He grimaces and presses his palms firmly to the floorboards against every instinct that tells him to pull away, glances up to see Dante doing the same. Their eyes meet and they nod in silent understanding before shifting to their most powerful forms; Dante’s wings knock books from the nearby shelves and the armchairs overlooking the garden behind Vergil are forced back to accommodate for his sudden hulking size, but the siphoning immediately becomes more bearable, at least until this particular reserve of power is exhausted. The pull on his soul makes him feel displaced, out of sync with himself and the reality around him. It’s a sensation that Vergil finds all too familiar.

_A triad of bright lights hang above him in the darkness, mocking, while his power is drained from him, leaving him helpless to fight off the black tendrils that force their way into his eyes and ears and mouth and nose and down his throat and beneath his skin, hollow him out and tear him to pieces— _

Vergil growls and digs his claws into the floor to ground himself in the present and extends his presence to briefly touch against Dante’s, comforted by the way his brother pushes gently back without question. Their triggers eventually drain, throwing them back into human form and the excessive discomfort it brings with it. Sweat breaks across his skin at the exertion, his muscles screaming in protest at his insistence to continue funnelling his very life force into a hunk of metal designed to devour it, to take it all until every atom is infused with demonic power, catalysed by the countless condensed souls of demons who had lost their battles and sank to the lowest point of the underworld. That Dante is struggling too gives him some small sense of comfort, because it means that he is not weaker, not compromised by past experiences, equal to Dante in strength and resolve. Time passes agonisingly slowly — his back aches with holding this crouch for so long, his arms shake, the boards dig painfully into his knee, but he daren’t move lest he disrupt the process.

It stops abruptly. The glowing lines of the sigils and circles are gone in the blink of an eye, plunging them into the blue-grey darkness of a cloudy moonlit night, pale silver light resting on every surface like a layer of fine dust. The only sound in the room is that of two exhausted half-devils panting heavily, hearts racing, until the relative silence is broken by Dante.

“Did it work?” His voice is ragged, and Vergil knows that he’s going to sound just as bad. It’s an odd thing to hear; they rarely get to these levels of fatigue due to demon constitution and their constantly repairing cells. Dante doesn’t even wait for his response, chuckling slightly as he sits back on his haunches and says, “Well, that wasn’t so b—”

A blinding flash lights up the room. Vergil manages to withstand the blast of force that pushes him back from the blade, having kept his guard up, but Dante doesn’t fare so well in his carelessness. He’s thrown back into the solid mass of the desk with a painful crack. Hopefully Dante’s skull and not the expensive furniture, Vergil thinks, while Dante groans in a heap on the floor. 

“_Ow._” 

He sits up, massaging the back of his head with a grimace. 

“_Really,_ brother. You didn’t think that would be it, did you?” Vergil says scathingly, picking himself up off the floor with a grunt of discomfort after so long locked in the same position. He rolls his shoulders and tilts his head back. Dante huffs and gets to his feet.

“Shut up, Vergil,” he grumbles, the manner so reminiscent of petulant childhood arguments that Vergil can’t help the way the corner of his mouth quirks into a victorious smile, because that tone has only ever meant one of two things — that he has proven Dante wrong in some manner or that he has worn out a disagreement to the point where Dante simply gives up.

The sword now hangs suspended in the air above the single remaining point of light on the circle, the tip of the lethal black blade pointing to the ground. Vergil steps forward and wraps his fingers around the hilt, tugs it from the invisible hold. The blade vibrates with power, raw and unfocused though it may be, and now there’s only one step left. 

“Come,” he says, drawing the Yamato and cutting through the fabric of the universe. He doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see if his brother complies, because Dante always follows. It is the nature of him. They step onto the dusty ground of the disused quarry that they use for their sparring matches, long since left to fall back into nature’s grasp; evidence of their matches lie in the dark red-brown patches on otherwise grey gravel, the deep gouges and blasts in the vertical rock walls. 

Dante saunters over with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t want blood in your office, huh?”

“Would you?” Vergil asks, then belatedly realises the stupidity of the question. “On second thought, don’t answer that.”

“It adds character,” Dante says with a lazy shrug. He swivels on his heel, looking around the quarry. "So, how we doin' this? You stab me, I stab you?" 

"Something like that," Vergil replies, testing the weight of the sword in his grip. It's comfortable to hold, and perfectly balanced despite the ornamentation as expected, but he predicts — counts on — the completion of the ritual embellishing it further, so its final state remains to be seen. 

Dante spreads his arms wide, curls his fingers in an encouraging gesture. "Alright, do your worst." He clearly expects Vergil to raise the blade and jam it through his chest, so it only makes sense that he would frown when Vergil steps into his space instead, letting the sword fall from his hands. It doesn't hit the ground, instead caught by an unseen force that moves it upon his will, repositioning the blade to hang in the air behind Dante. Vergil rests his hands on Dante’s shoulders and pulls him closer until they stand chest to chest, breathing each other's air, and presses their lips together in a short kiss. 

"We are two halves of a whole, and the sword requires both of us. For this to work it must run us through simultaneously, or it'll be left half-done. Ready?" he asks the question but doesn't wait for the answer. With a twitch of his fingers the blade plunges into Dante’s back with the accompanying sounds of tearing flesh, crunching bone and the gurgle of blood. It pierces effortlessly out of his chest and into Vergil’s, shattering his sternum as it passes through. The pain is a given but it burns far hotter than anticipated, more than any wound usually does, and Vergil lets out a wheezing breath, wrapping his arms around Dante as the blade drinks their mingling blood with gluttonous thirst. Demonic energy boils beneath their skin and sparks in the air around them, swirls of black and blue and red pouring from their bodies and into the sword that binds them together so intimately in this moment. 

“The kid— better like this freakin’ sword—” Dante says with a forced chuckle that shakes his shoulders. The gentle sound turns to wet choking when blood catches in his throat, bubbling up from his torn lungs and spattering onto Vergil’s shoulder. He’d complain about that, were it not for the proto-devil arm that has already ruined the shirt in two places. Dante turns his face into the crook of Vergil’s neck and mumbles with bloody lips against his skin, “You _so_ owe me for this, brother.”

Vergil laughs at that, cutting himself short and hissing in pain as the motion jolts the blade impaled through his chest, and moves his hand to curl around the base of Dante’s skull. Of course he owes Dante for _this,_ and not for the myriad of disasters he’s caused or the guilt he placed so carelessly on his brother’s shoulders. 

“I’ll spend the rest of the evening at your disposal, Dante. My time will be yours, and only yours,” Vergil promises, carding his fingers through Dante’s hair. It’s slightly matted with blood from his earlier falling-out with the desk, and it occurs to Vergil that they’re going to need another shower. How unfortunate. 

The sword begins to thrum with barely contained power, shifting and remoulding itself while still embedded in their flesh. It is an exceedingly uncomfortable sensation. _Soon,_ he thinks to himself. Soon he can devote himself entirely to Dante, with no other concerns to interrupt his focus. 

Demonic energy blasts outwards in an ethereal blue flame and knocks the air from Vergil’s lungs; not with physical force, because there is none, but from the sheer unseen power that releases from the blade, a wave of static unlike anything he’s felt before that pulls on his soul and briefly distorts the world around them. Gasping, he places his hands against Dante’s chest and uses his body as leverage to push himself off of the blade with a bloody cough, stumbles around to yank the sword from his brother’s back. 

Dante bends forward, hands on his knees, and hacks up a lungful of congealing blood and dead tissue. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns his attention to the weapon in Vergil’s hand, eyes widening in awe at the sight of it. “Holy shit, Vergil,” he says between heaving breaths. “You did it.”

“Imagine that,” he muses, turning the blade in his hand. The shimmering blue inlay has risen from the sword just as planned, gradually curling from the ebony blade at its base to form twisting metal thorns and roses around the crossguard and exhausts. The exhausts themselves don’t require fuel as the Red Queen does; instead they act as a propelling, explosive force using the latent power within the sword and her wielder, and give off a permanent blue glow that pulses in time with that of the singular groove cut down both sides of the blade, a narrow window to the energy contained within. The sharpened edge is a matching dark pearlescent blue to the embellishments, merging seamlessly with the black body of the curved blade, and it catches the moonlight with a truly deadly glimmer. The silver pommel has embedded within it a double-sided sapphire rose that fractures the light passing through.

Vergil allows himself a satisfied grin. With Dante’s aid, he has succeeded in creating a personal Devil Arm for Nero, infused with their combined strength. Hopefully that — coupled with the amounts of Nero’s essence that he had managed to infuse in some of the smaller parts without the boy’s knowledge — will allow it to resonate with his soul the way their own blades sing with theirs. 

He flicks his wrist and the sword disappears into the ether until he calls upon it once more. Tomorrow, he’ll find out if their efforts will be appreciated. Dante approaches, takes his face in his hands and kisses him softly, resting their foreheads together when they part. 

“They’d be so proud of you,” he whispers, and something lodges itself painfully in Vergil’s throat. He attempts to clear it, but to no avail, and the word comes out somewhat choked when he speaks.

“Us,” he says. For crafting the weapon, for surviving, for finally being at peace with one another and their own broken selves after so many years.

“Hey, you did all the legwork. Now take the damn credit when I’m giving it to you, it doesn’t happen every day.” Dante huffs out a small laugh, then groans, clutching at his still-healing chest. He pats Vergil’s arm and steps away, gesturing at the empty air. “C’mon, Verge. Let’s go home.”

There’s that word again, so mundane yet so incredibly weighted. 

Vergil draws the Yamato.

_Home,_ he thinks for the first time, not _Devil May Cry,_ channeling the thought into the blade as he cuts through the air once, twice. 

The raw energy that pours from the seams of reality pulls at his skin as he steps through the void with Dante at his side, from the cold night air of a distant quarry to the retained heat of the building that he lives in with his brother. 

The home that he shares with him. 

They’re in the bedroom, of course they are, because lying in Dante’s arms or with Dante in his is the most at home he has ever felt, and he wastes no time stripping his brother of his blood-stained clothes and pushing him onto the bed. He is utterly high on the success of the night and the overwhelming joy of being _home_ that courses through his veins, and he intends to have Dante share in his ecstasy because he is the cause, the reason, the only thing that matters, and being here with him five years after their tumultuous reunion is a gift that he will always cherish. 

Dante laughs beneath him, such a beautiful sound, and pulls him down.

* * *

_Vergil screams and screams, half-blooded demon body being pushed to its limits of regeneration and pain, flesh torn and bones broken and he can do nothing, absolutely nothing as Mundus tears him apart, except — except it’s not Mundus, not anymore, suddenly Vergil is standing with his fist in Dante’s open chest cavity with his heart in his hand, hammering faster than any human heart could as it tries to maintain the flow of oxygen, and Vergil rips it from Dante’s chest just as Mundus had done to him and Dante howls — Mundus rips Vergil’s heart from his chest in a spray of blood, freeing him from the chains of humanity — and Vergil laughs and watches the light leave his brother’s eyes, that ever-burning fire dwindle away — Mundus laughs and smothers Vergil in darkness that seeps into every facet of him, suffocating —_

Vergil wakes surrounded by abyssal darkness, his chest heaving as he gasps for air he won't be granted, the gaping holes in his body still dripping gore and blood and the wet slide of Mundus’s eldritch magics wrapped around him, paralysing— 

“Vergil. Vergil, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

_Safe._

Dante's voice — not screaming, not in pain — is warm and comforting, rough with sleep and concern. It reaches him through the murk, a lifeline in the form of meaningless words of reassurance, nothing but white noise to pull him back to reality. Firm, gentle pressure opens one of Vergil’s clenched fists and laces their fingers together, and Vergil finds that he can breathe again, slow and shaky though his inhales may be. It's not pitch black as he had thought — orange-hued incandescent light filters in through a gap in the curtains, giving everything in the room a faintly brown tint. His chest aches but a tentative touch once he escapes the paralysis proves that there are no gaping wounds, only unmarred, sweat-slicked skin. 

He's lying on his back and Dante is propped over him, worry etched into the lines of his face. Vergil pushes himself into a sitting position and runs his fingers through his hair, tightens his grip on Dante's hand as he just _breathes._ In, out, a steady, grounding rhythm. 

"It's been a while since you've had one of those." Dante's murmur breaks the silence once Vergil is appropriately settled and no longer feels the phantom grasp of the demon king.

_Pathetic._

"It appears Mundus's hold on my psyche still remains," his voice shakes as he replies, making no attempt to hide the disgust in his tone. "So much for cutting out my nightmares."

Dante pushes Vergil’s hair from his face, an exasperated tut escaping him. They've had this conversation many times over. "I'd be more worried if you _didn't_ have nightmares," he says, then adds, slightly softer, "It was him again?" 

Vergil nods. He decides to omit the new addition of Dante in his place and he in Mundus's. "Isn't it always?" he sighs in frustration. Of course it _isn't_ always the case and Dante knows this, but he makes no comment. The others are about him, after all. They are the same in this regard, because for every time that Vergil has jolted awake when a younger Dante drives his sword through Nelo Angelo’s ribcage, Dante has woken with an anguished scream and clung to Vergil with a crushing grip, refusing to let go. 

That they are both each other's greatest loves and most agonising nightmares is a fact that took some getting used to. 

Dante rubs circles into Vergil’s back and kisses his shoulder. “You gonna get up for a while?”

He often does, after his nightmares. It helps him settle, to compartmentalise the memories and tuck them neatly away once more, so that when he goes back to bed he can close his eyes without seeing Mundus on the inside of his eyelids. This particular method does not seem like it would help much now, however. Vergil shakes his head. “Not this time.”

Dante frowns at him, concern flitting across his features, but he nods. “Alright, sure. C’mere.” He lies down on his side, one arm held up, waiting for Vergil to curl up within. Vergil takes a deep, shaking breath at the sight of his brother’s bare chest, unable to scrub the visual from his mind of his brother’s chest cracked open and dripping with gore, ribs hanging to the side, veins and arteries hanging uselessly in the space where his heart is supposed to be. He shakes his head slightly and guides Dante gently onto his back, nestling into his brother’s side with his head on his chest. Dante says nothing about the shift of position, complying without resistance.

_Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud._

Dante wraps his arms around Vergil and pulls him closer, presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I got you,” he says softly. 

Even once Vergil has managed to tidy up the mess in his mind, carefully putting it all into the darkest possible corner and locking it away, the dream haunts him. It had felt just as real and as vivid as the memories it had entwined with; he can still feel the wet slide of Dante’s heart in his hand, the snap and loss of resistance when he tore it out. But Dante’s heart beats steadily beneath his ear, a comforting and reassuring rhythm reminding him that it was just a dream. Still, he finds himself deeply unsettled by it. Something about it had felt so…wrong.

It takes Vergil a long time to fall asleep.


End file.
